Playing the Game
by princessozmaofoz
Summary: Nicola confronts Malcolm after his betrayal of her trust. Written before 4x05 (so somewhat AU but still containing spoilers for all previous episodes). Malcolm/Nicola. Warning for: language, sexual references, spoilers, and more than a bit of UST.


Author's Note and Disclaimer:  So I wrote this after watching 4x04 , but somehow never got around to posting it here. It's therefore not the most compliant with the rest of S4 (though still not completely AU.) Basically, I just wanted a confrontation between Malcolm and Nicola about what he did to her. As it's Malcolm and Nicola, f-bombs abound, but as there isn't much else that would merit an "M" rating, I'm leaving this "T." And obviously, I don't own _The Thick of It_ or any of it's characters.

Playing the Game

He arrived home that evening to find her sitting on his doorstep. She had changed her clothes and had donned a pair of sunglasses that obscured much of her face. However, he still recognized her immediately, even from several feet away. He knew her too well…too fucking well indeed for either of their own good.

Well enough to be aware that his impassioned threats of graphic sexual violence didn't work quite the same way on her as they did on everyone else. Well enough to remember that her favorite sort of tea was Lemon Zinger. Well enough to know that calling her "Nicky" was the second quickest way to piss her off. (The first was mentioning her husband).

Well enough to put up with her incompetence as Opposition Leader for two whole fucking years in the hope that she'd find the strength he knew she had in her somewhere. Well enough to hesitate the teeniest-fucking-tiniest-iota of a second before deciding to force her out, because he knew how much this would destroy her personally as well as politically.

There was a tiny part of him that was almost proud to see her now, to know that she wasn't going to just roll over and die. Maybe some of his teaching had stuck after all.

But even as he was secretly a little bit fucking-pleased, he was even more fucking-furious. An angry, determined, passionate Nicola was the closest fucking thing possible to a competent Nicola, the closest fucking thing possible to a Nicola that might be a genuine threat.

As she heard him approaching, Nicola rose to her feet and something covered in tissue paper tumbled off her lap and down the doorstep. Malcolm could just barely make out something soft-looking and pale yellow peering out from several sheets of the crinkly white paper.

Ah, those must be the flowers Sam had ordered for him. He'd eventually decided upon yellow carnations—carnations because they were cheap and boring; yellow ones because it was the first fucking color that came to mind when Sam had asked.

Nicola stepped down from the stairs, walked over to the flowers, and leaned forward to pick up the flowers. As Malcolm casually admired the view, he was slightly dismayed to realize that this was probably the last time in awhile he'd be there to admire it. Nicola might have been a fucking walking disaster, but he had to give credit where it was due; she did have a _very _fucking nice arse. It was one of the few things he knew he was going to miss about working with her.

If he was being really fucking honest with himself, Malcolm might have admitted that there _were_ –in fact—other things about Nicola Murray he'd miss. Some of them—too fucking many of them—were physical: her curves, her skin, her smile, and those fucking eyes most of all.

The rest— and too fucking many of them as well—weren't physical at all: the fact that she was able to look him straight in the eye without flinching, the fact that she was still able to make him laugh even as she was driving him fucking insane, the fact that she could be stubborn as fucking hell when she really wanted to be, the fact that the black abyss of politics hadn't yet robbed her of passion and idealism, even after four fucking years of watching dreams die and lives go to shit.

Yeah, he'd definitely fucking miss all of those things. He'd definitely fucking miss _her _in general.

That wasn't to say that he in any way regretted fucking her over. Quite the contrary, she was a fucking liability to the Party, and as such had to be liquidated before she shit on all his hard work any more. He'd do all of it again in a heartbeat if that was what was necessary.

Sometimes, you had to sacrifice a pawn to capture the king—especially when the pawn was in fucking denial that they were just a pawn and not the bloody queen. Even if you happened to like the pawn as a person, while fucking despising them as a politician.

In any case, he was done with her now, done for-fucking-ever most likely. Or at least, he should've been. She was still standing outside his fucking flat and showed no signs of clearing out. Maybe if he just ignored her… Well probably not, knowing her but it was worth a fucking try.

Nicola pulled off her sunglasses and stuffed them in her purse. "Malcolm," she said expectantly by way of greeting once he'd gotten closer.

He gave her no indication that he had heard and tried to press onward, only to have her block his path. " Not so fast. You and I need to have a little chat."

Undeterred by this, he simply walked around her and straight up the stairs to his door. "I'm sorry, darlin'; I'd love te. I really fucking would, but I just haven't got the time."

She followed his lead. "_Make _time."

He fumbled in his pocket for his key. "Not fer ye, Nicky. Not anymore. "

He'd known the "Nicky" was going to wind her up a little, but he hadn't counted on a reaction quite so intense. In a sudden, fluid movement, she had dropped the flowers again and had grabbed him by the shoulders. She then proceeded to spin him around and roughly shove him up against the front door. "Who said I was giving you a fucking choice? We _will _talk, ideally right here and now. If you try to avoid me, I'll wait on your doorstep all fucking night and ambush you the moment you step outside tomorrow morning. Am I clear?"

For a moment, Malcolm merely gaped at her. His senses must be fucking deceiving him, because they were currently telling him that _Nicola Murray_ of all people had him fucking pinned to a door, that she was standing so close to him that he could feel her breath and smell her hair—which smelled really fucking nice by the way.

"I'll call the police," he finally managed once he had gotten over the initial shock. "They'll send ye down to fucking Scotland Yard, and we both know James won't bail ye out. Ye'll have to spend the whole night in the same cell as a fucking undernourished, schizophrenic who thinks he's a fucking vampire. Ye'll wake up in the middle of the night to find him straddling ye and sinking his teeth into that pretty little neck of yeres." He reached over to stroke the pretty little neck in question.

The effect was immediate, and she flinched, releasing her grip on him for a millisecond before restoring it. "I don't need to go to Scotland Yard to find a 'fucking undernourished, schizophrenic who thinks he's a vampire.' All I have to do is spend two fucking seconds in your company. So tell me, Malcolm, did you honestly think I'd let you suck me dry? That I'd let you feed on my life and my happiness? That I'd be quiet, submissive, cooperative as you took away my future?"

Malcolm thought he caught sight of some of his neighbors peering out their windows. Fuck, they were creating a scene! Well some things never changed; Nicola Murray might be backing him against doors now, but she still didn't know when to keep her fucking mouth shut.

"Nicola, I wasn't fucking joking," he replied as quietly and calmly as he could manage given the circumstances. "If you don't leave me alone, I fucking _will _the call the police. And if by some fucking miracle yere career hasn't already been completely-fucking obliterated, it will be once it gets out that ye assaulted one of yere former advisors."

Nicola fought the very strong temptation to call him out on the hypocrisy of this statement. Not only did Malcolm himself have a very bad habit of backing people up against walls, but he'd also physically attacked Glenn—the fucking spineless traitor—on one particularly momentous occasion.

Instead, she gave a cold laugh. "No, you won't call the cops. Do you know how I know? It's because I know you, Malcolm, and I know you want this just as much as I do." She moved the fingers of one hand deftly and deliberately up his chest, making him suddenly very fucking confused as to what the "this" was that they both wanted.

Malcolm felt his breath temporarily stall. "What de ye mean, Nic'la?"

"Whether you admit it to yourself or not, you 're fucking delighted to have one final chance to rub your triumph in my face, to tell me what you really think of me."

Fuck, she was right. He was sort of looking for the opportunity to gloat a bit more. He'd put up with her shite for years. He deserved this chance to tell her to her glum, smug little face everything fucking thing he'd had to keep to himself when he'd been officially serving under her.

"Fine, Nicky. Ye want to talk, we'll fucking talk. But can we fucking do it inside?"

She nodded, released him, and picked up the flowers again, following him inside after he'd unlocked the door.

"Why don't ye make yereself comfortable?" He gestured over to the sofa. "I've gotta take a piss."

" I'm surprised you don't just piss right on me; that's much more your style."

"Nah, I don't want to ruin yere fucking dress."

It was a nice-looking dress too, much nicer than she usually wore. Fucking tighter and lower-cut too. This struck him as a little odd. After the long fucking day she'd had, he would've expected her to change into something more comfortable.

Nah, she'd probably changed into this in the hopes of impressing him or making him regret dropping her. It wasn't gonna fucking work. He didn't regret his decision in the slightest, and he wasn't fucking impressed.

Well…maybe a _little _impressed. She did have a decent figure, and that color suited her complexion nicely.

"Besides," he continued. " I honestly don't think ye can handle the sight of my cock. Yere too fucking unstable right now. Not to mention that it's much bigger than I'm sure ye're used to, being married to that fucking bent twat."

To be perfectly honest, he also wasn't entirely certain his cock could handle the sight of her right now. The longer he stared at the neckline of that fucking dress, the more he fucking thought of her shoving him up against the door. And the more he thought about that... well it was best not to think anymore about that.

"Oh, believe me, Malcolm. I can handle absolutely _anything_ you expose me to." Her eyes were cold, her tone challenging.

"Is that a fucking invitation?" _Fuck, he was starting to wish it was!_

" You _wish_! That would be just fucking _perfect _for you and your fucking overbearing sense of male entitlement. Not only would you get my job and my happiness and my self-respect, you'd get my body too. You'd have the satisfaction of fucking me in every imaginable way."

"Ye flatter yerself darlin.' Ye really fucking do. Now if ye don't mind, I really need to use the fucking toilet right now." _And slap some cold water on his face while he was at it. Free himself from some of the very fucking bizarre images in his head._

She took another few steps closer to him. "Just don't stay in there too long. Believe me, I will come in if you do. I'll kick down the fucking door if I need to. You can't avoid me forever, you know."

"Au contraire; I could avoid ye forever very fucking easily if I really wanted te. But I'll be back. Ye were right earlier; I am actually fucking looking to this mutual bollocking. And word of advice, luv. Don't ever try to break down my bathroom door; it's fucking impenetrable."

As he walked away, Nicola marveled once again at Malcolm's remarkable talent for making even the most mundane sentences sound like euphemisms.

After Malcolm finished carrying out his business, he returned to find Nicola on the sofa with her feet propped up on the coffee table as she rummaged through her handbag. The familiar image prompted a memory of the last time she'd been here with him.

Nicky had gotten herself so sloshed that letting her going home to that twat James would've a bad idea. Malcolm had let her crash at his place, though it had taken a fucking while to convince her to actually "crash." It had been a very long, very interesting, slightly-fucking crazy night on both their parts. One that he probably wasn't going to forget anytime soon, much as he might have wanted to forget everything about the daft bint and all the trouble she'd caused him.

The thought then occurred to Malcolm that it might be to his advantage to get Nicola a little tipsy right now. She _was _much fucking nicer when she was drunk— at least much fucking nicer to _him_ specifically. (The same could not be said for James Murray).

"Can I get ye something to drink, Nic'la?" He moved over to the kitchen and got a glass of fucking Fanta for himself. No alcohol for him tonight; given his earlier reactions to her, it appeared his judgment was already impaired fucking enough tonight where Nicola Murray was concerned.

She left the flowers and her purse on the sofa before following him into the kitchen. "No. I've learned the hard way never to get drunk with you, Malcolm."

He took a sip of soda. "Who said anything about getting' ye drunk? Just one; it might help loosen the tension a wee bit. Christ, it's not healthy to be so fucking uptight all the time—ye know."

" Maybe I'd rather have _all _the fucking tension. It'll keep me focused. And besides, even if I_ did_ want to calm down, it's never 'just one' with you. You just keep re-filling my glass while I'm not looking, and then I end up doing the stupidest fucking things imaginable."

He finished his Fanta and put the glass in the sink. "Believe me, darlin'; you're perfectly capable of doing the stupidest fucking things imaginable even when ye're sober as a fucking judge. Is it still a fucking 'no,' then, luv?"

"It's a fucking 'not ever fucking again.'"

Malcolm poured her a brandy anyway. He was sure Nicola wouldn't refuse it once she was offered. He was wrong. He'd only just handed the glass to her when she proceeded to pour its entire contents onto his suit.

"How dare you; this is fucking Armani!"

She grinned very wickedly and then proceeded to drop the glass itself on the kitchen floor, where it shattered spectacularly.

"And _that _is fucking Venetian glass! You'd better be planning to fucking pay me back."

" _Au contraire,_ my little bloodthirsty metrosexual," she replied, as she emphatically crashed some of the remaining fragments of glass beneath her high heel. "_I_ don't owe _you_ a fucking thing."

He crossed his arms across his chest. "Oh, so I suppose ye think_ I_ owe _ye _something?"

"Oh, do you _think?_" Sarcasm oozed out of her every syllable.

"I _don't_ fucking think. But I'm willin' to negotiate. If there's anything that might make ease the pain the tiniest fucking bit, I'm all fucking ears. So what do you want Nic'la? More flowers? Chocolate? A massage? The fucking North-Fucking-Star? JB's cock on a gold platter? Or Ollie's? Or your wanker of a husband's?"

"What about _yours,_ Malcolm? What about your cock on a platter? What about letting me use your balls for tennis practice? What about letting me carve my initials into your bare bum with a butter knife?"

He grinned in spite of himself; there was that spirit that been missing for the past fucking three years! Plus, it was kind of funny to watch her shamelessly emulate him, and even funnier that she seemed genuinely serious about these threats. And he'd clearly taught her something about making threats over the years. The butter knife was a very fucking nice touch.

"DON'T YOU DARE FUCKING LAUGH! Or I'll fucking shove all these fucking glass shards in your ear one-by-one!"

"How ye gonna do that without cutting yerself first, lass?" he pointed out, grinning more smugly than ever.

"I don't even care if I do bleed anymore, as long as you do too. You've already made me bleed; if it takes a bit more of my blood to make you bleed worse than so be it."

"But then ye'll scar those lovely hands of yeres and yere husband isn't gonna let ye touch his tiny fucking prick anymore. And let's face it, darlin'; with all this fucking stress in yere life right now, ye need to get laid and fucking badly."

Was it terrible that Malcolm was starting to consider volunteering for the task himself? He was almost positive James wasn't gonna fucking satisfy her, and she did seem to need a good shag pretty fucking desperately right now.

Besides, it wasn't like it would be a total sacrifice on his part. He'd be lying if he said he didn't find her somewhat attractive, andshe _was _being very fucking interesting tonight—shoving people against doors and breaking glasses and making graphic threats to the anatomy.

" Leave my personal life out of this."

" Whatever ye say, Nicky. " He returned the subject to its previous topic. "There must be fucking something else that'll satisfy ye, Nic'la. Ye want me to try to talk Dan in putting ye back in his cabinet?" _As if, but she didn't have to know that—did she? _"Ye want an all-expenses-paid holiday in Paris?"

" I don't want anything that _you _offer me. We can't all be fucking bought and sold."

" Oh, darling. When ye've been in politics as long as I have, ye'll know that e_veryone _can bought. It's just a matter of figuring out the right price and whether or not ye're willing to pay it. So, what about ye, Nicky? What's yere price? What will it take to make ye shut yere wee smug mouth and disappear fer a coupla months?"

She took a deep breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was lower and colder than he'd ever heard it—_almost _fucking intimidating. "My price is this: I want you to feel everything I'm feeling now. I want you insecure, unwanted, confused, angry, betrayed, and fucking _petrified _about what the future will hold_. _And what you're the most vulnerable you can possibly be,I want you to fall like I feel. I want you to crash like the fucking Hindenburg, and I want to be there to watch."

He sighed. "I'm afraid I couldn't do that do that fer ye even if I fucking wanted te."

" Then at the very least, tell my why. Just tell me what the fuck I did to deserve this, what the fuck I did to make you hate me so much! Fuck it; I _cared_ about you, Malc. Even though everyone and everything told me not to do so. Even my own fucking better judgment told me not to, but I did so anyway. You made me laugh and cry and shout and swear more times than I can possibly count. But through it all, I wanted your respect and your opinion and your guidance and your humor and your…" She turned her back on him so that he wouldn't see the moisture welling up in her eyes. Then, she took a deep breath and shook herself. "Maybe you're right, maybe I was fucking retarded after all."

" Well, I'm not gonna contest that. But really; it's nothing personal. I like ye; ye're a pretty decent fucking person. But yere also one of the worst fucking politicians I've ever met, and ye destroy every fucking chance the Party has of getting back in power and making a fucking difference."

She reeled around again to face him. "So this isn't about me refusing to cover your back when Fleming forced you out?"

_Oh, she had to bring up that—didn't she? _ She just _had _to bring that up.

Funnily enough, she was right in a way. He was almost positive that he would've forced her out regardless; any fucking obstacle in the way to his return to power had to be dealt with. However, he had experienced some troubling hesitation when he initially realized he'd need to eliminate her.

And then, he considered the Fleming incident. Though he might occasionally claim otherwise, Malcolm Tucker never forgot, and he never forgave. Nicola had refused to cover his arse once when it had really mattered. Would it really be so terrible to uncover hers then?

"Well, is it?" she challenged.

" Nah, I tol' ye; this is about the good of the Party. Besides, this is better fer ye too. Ye can't tell me ye actually fucking _liked_ being Leader? All that extra stress and work, all the fucking attention and criticism, no fucking free time fer yereself or yere family at all. Ye'll be much fucking happier in a backbench position—believe me."

Nicola rolled her eyes. " You can dispense with all this altruistic, fucking-martyr shit. You didn't do this for my own fucking good or even the good of the Party and the country. You did this for you."

He shrugged. "I only did what fucking needed to be done."

"Even if it _hypothetically_ did need to be done—which it damn well didn't—you didn't need to do it so publically and viciously," she pointed out. "You could've done it in a subtler and kinder way, and you could've done it without shameless gloating as well. Fuck! With your brains you probably could've done it so subtly that I'd never find out you were behind it. But that never crossed your mind—did it? Because you're a fucking heartless bastard and a fucking sadist."

" I take that as a compliment. And fuck, ye actually fucking think this is me being rougher than I need te?" He laughed mockingly. "That was fucking _gentle_ fer me, lass. If I wanted te, I could've fucked ye so hard that ye'd break every fucking bone in yere body. I could've fucked ye so hard that ye'd end up fucking paralyzed fer life. I could fuck ye so long that when it's the fucking end of time, fucking Christ himself is gonna have to pull me off yere catatonic body so I can get me fucking soul judged. Cause even after all that time, I still wouldn't have got tired of fucking taking ye over and over and over again."

"This really gets you off—doesn't it? Crushing dreams, breaking minds and hearts and souls and bodies, having people totally at your mercy."

He didn't even bother to deny it, probably because he knew it was at least partly true. It wasn't so much that he genuinely liked destroying people—though it could be highly entertaining if the fucker really deserved to be destroyed (and more often than not, they _did). _But Nicola was right about one thing, he did fucking _love_ having people at his mercy, having everything he possibly could under his complete control. The need for dominance was just as crucial a part of his character as blind idealism was a part of her character.

Hadn't that been obvious from the start of their relationship? He'd fucked her over many times already—all of them for her own fucking good, mind you—over the course of the four years they'd known each other. This may have been the most recent and most drastic, but it was hardly the fucking first.

She drew herself up proudly. "Well, I've got news for you; I'm not going to be at your mercy this time—or any time ever again. In fact, you're going to be at my mercy."

"Are you threatening me? Are you Nicola-fucking-trips-over-her-own-two-left-feet-Murray actually fucking threatening _me?_" He didn't know whether to be amused or angry.

"No. I should've made that a little clearer." She closed a great deal of the distance that remained between them, her eyes narrowing in an expression that bordered on menacing. "That wasn't a threat; that was a _promise_."

Who did she think she was? He'd fucking _created _her.

God, it was like that fucking movie. The one where the gay Sherlock Holmes danced around the street in a fucking top hat and cravat, singing about how much he wanted to fuck Audrey Hepburn—though who could really blame him for that—before proceeding to stalk and sexually harass her for the rest of the movie. And Audrey only gave him the time of day because she was trying to piss off that professor who'd taught her how to dress and helped her lose the gawdawful Cockney accent.

Malcolm saw now that he was the fucking professor and Nicola was his Audrey Hepburn. He'd taken her— wide-eyed, naïve, impressionable—and he'd done his best to make her more than what she was. He'd groomed her for success, or at least as much success as she could reasonably expect being Nicola Murray. He'd taught her how to walk, how to dress, how to swear, how to think, how to plot, how to fight, how to _hate._

Apparently, those last two lessons had been the ones that had stuck the best. And now that she thought she no longer needed his guiding hand, she had the fucking nerve to use the things he'd taught her to try to destroy him.

_Not_ that she was going to succeed, of course. Angry and motivated though she might be, she _was _still Nicola Murray.

But though her plans were obviously doomed to fail, the fact that she was even going to try to take him down at all—to try and impale him with his own sword, his own methods— still infuriated Malcolm beyond comprehension. But at the same time, it also greatly impressed him. He mentally congratulated himself on helping her grow a very fine pair of lady bollocks indeed.

This Nicola Murray was really fucking something to behold: cruel, proud, selfish, self-righteous, demanding, determined, aggressive, ambitious. And—fuck he might as well admit it— this Nicola was sexy as fucking hell: the dominant way she'd fucking pinned him against the door not long ago, the way her eyes were blazing now with a passionate conviction and hatred, the way she held her head higher and prouder than he'd ever seen it, the low, steely timbre of her voice as she barked vicious (albeit empty) threats at him.

"So ye think ye can fuck me, luv? Ye really think ye can fuck the great Malcolm Tucker?"

She grabbed him roughly by the tie, pulling him down to her level. Her voice was a husky whisper as she moved her lips uncomfortably close to his ear. "You're not the only one who has connections, darling. You're not the only one who knows where some of the bodies are buried. You're not only one afraid to dirty your hands to do what you have to do." She twirled his tie tightly around her manicured fingers. "And I'm willing to do whatever it takes; I'm willing to anything and everything that it takes to bring you to your knees." She released her grip on him and turned to go, but he grasped her wrist tightly.

"I look ferward to it. Almost as much as I'm looking ferward to fucking ye right back even harder." He wasn't entirely if he meant literal or figurative fucking—probably both. "I just hope ye know who yere dealing with, darlin'; I hope yere ready for the fuck of yere miserable fucking life."

She shook herself out of his grasp. "I was born ready."

He glanced at her for a second before extending his hand to her. "Then may the best fucking man win. And just so ye know, I fuckin' plan to."

Nicola took the hand offered her, and they shook on the bargain. "I fucking _will." _ They continued to grasp hands tightly, each daring the other with their eyes to be the first to let go.

Eventually, Nicola gave in. "Fraid, I've got to run now, dear. Much as I'd love to hang around, I've got a lot of fucking work to do if I'm gonna take you down." She walked back over to the sofa, and picked up her handbag. Then, she faced him one last time. "Ah, but parting is _such_ sweet fucking sorrow, isn't it Malc? Until we meet again, bastard. Auf Wiedersehen. Au revoir, Ad—fucking—dieu." Then, she turned on her heels and went.

Malcolm watched her walk away, her hips swaying ever-so-slightly. Then, he heard a loud slam of the front door, and she was gone.

Well, that had to be the most fucking interesting interaction he'd ever had with Nicola-Fuckin'-Murray, and that included the times he'd seen her drunk. Clearly, the lass had much bigger balls than Malcolm had previously thought, though still not enough common sense to know that trying to fuck him was the biggest fucking mistake she'd ever make in her life.

After he'd swept up all the glass fragments from his kitchen floor, Malcolm retreated to the sofa with a beer. (No fucking Fanta this time; he needed something a little stronger now.)

He was just about to sit down, when he noticed something unusual. Nicola had left her fucking flowers. At first, he thought she'd merely forgotten them, but then, he remembered that she'd specifically gone back to retrieve her handbag.

Was he right in thinking she'd left the flowers behind on purpose? But why, to send a message, to say that she wasn't going to accept any of the (for-her-own- fucking-good) shit he'd piled on her? Or was she worried about how her pathetic excuse for a husband would act if he knew another man had sent flowers to his wife?

Malcolm noticed an envelope nestled inside the tissue paper that encased the bouquet. It was much larger than the business-card-sized ones usually sent with flowers. What was more, the envelope didn't appear to have been opened yet. And … of fucking course.

He opened the envelope and withdrew a folded sheet of paper, that when he opened he immediately recognized as the Party stationary. In the center of the page was a single line written in elaborate, meticulous, _very_ feminine cursive script: _Sorry you have to go too, darling, but let's face it; you're even more of a fucking waste of skin._

It was unsigned, but Nicola had left her mark anyway. The paper had been doused very liberally with her distinct floral perfume. And a closer examination of the envelope revealed the slightly-smudged crimson imprint of her lips directly over the back fold.

She'd actually sealed the fucking thing with a kiss! Half of him wanted to laugh in amusement at her audacity, and the other half wanted to angrily shove fucking the stupid thing down her ungrateful throat.

Or maybe it wasn't really the envelope he wanted to ram down her throat after all? Not just the envelope anyway.

Still, he couldn't really be that fucking angry with her; he was too fucking delighted to have someone to play with. Of course Nicola was hardly an ideal opponent; she was never gonna fucking be the Wellington to his Napoleon, the Holmes to his Moriarty.

Still, she was someone eager to play the game with him. Maybe, if he was feeling really fucking altruistic, he'd even let her have a few small victories in the beginning—give her a false sense of security before he really came down hard.

Fuck, this was gonna be fun!

…..

Nicola Murray grinned to herself as she wondered how long it would take Malcolm to realize that he was missing two files and a USB stick. And if/when he'd figure out that Nicola had smuggled them from his briefcase and into her handbag while he was taking his toilet break.

Part of her was so impatient to have her revenge that she wanted him to know right away. On the other hand, it might be even more rewarding to give him a false sense of security for a while.

In any case, he'd soon learn that fucking her over was the worst mistake he'd ever made in his miserable fucking life.


End file.
